


Inamorato

by kaesaria



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Het and Slash, Heterosexual Sex, John Silver really gets around, M/M, Multiple Everything, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Pairings, Multiple Partners, Multiple Relationships, Multiple Sex Acts, Multiple Sex Positions, Shameless Smut, but only one OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-03 17:54:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6620536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaesaria/pseuds/kaesaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>in·am·o·ra·to</b> (iˌnaməˈrädō) <em>n., pl. inamoratos</em><br/>      1. a man who loves or is loved; male sweetheart or lover.<br/><em>Origin.</em> 1585-95; Italian innamorato, masculine past participle of innamorare, to inflame with love.<br/>_____<br/>Written in response to an anonymous request on Pirate Prompts: "My name is John Silver and I happen to be a very good fuck."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Tempest

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **tem·pest** (ˈtɛmpɪst) _n., pl. tempests_  
>      1. a violent windstorm, especially one with rain, hail, or snow.  
>     2. a violent commotion, disturbance, or tumult.  
>  _Origin._ 1200-50; Middle English tempeste - Old French - Vulgar Latin *tempesta, for season, weather, storm.
> 
>   
> 

Anne Bonny’s delicate hand is at his crotch—already pressing and squeezing there with determined intent—quite before John’s brain catches up with what’s happening.

“Ah, excuse me, but—,” he says, then has to stop to stifle a groan. 

The other patrons of the establishment are glancing over from their own tables now, interested and amused and jeering looks that make the tips of John’s ears redden and heat.  But then Anne slips her hand inside his britches and the concept of _thought_ rushes out of his head like a rip current receding from shore.  It’s all John can do to hold on to the hard, splintery edge of the table and not whimper like a new-whelped pup.

“You’re sure Jack won’t mind?” he manages, after a long moment.

“What’s it to you?” Anne lobs back, with half a sneer and half a leer slanting against her pretty face.  She presses the heel of her hand right at the base of his now-fully-readied cock and adds, “Don’t worry about Jack, pretty boy.  I’ll handle him,” another rough squeeze and John gasps and winces, just a bit—

“After I’m done handling you,” Anne finishes with a wink.  Then she stands up and yanks John forward by the collar of his shirt.  He stumbles up the stairs—pulled at her heels like a dog on a leash—and is flat on his back on the large, canopied bed before he has time to think any further at all.

She stalks up the bed after him and pulls open the front of his britches in one smooth jerk, utterly uncaring of the sound of ripped stiches and John’s nervous yelp.  She presses the flat of her warm, spit-slick tongue against him and licks up once—from stem to stern—and John’s eyes roll heavenward; he sees the cloudless night sky, he sees the stars. 

“Don’t come until I’m done with you,” Anne instructs, pulling up, and John only has time to swallow and nod, shaky, before she hikes up her skirts and mounts him in one slow, wet clench.  John fists his hands on the rumpled sheets at his sides and moans like a whore.

Anne fucks like a hurricane:  terrifying and breathtaking and entirely indifferent to the fallout she leaves in the wake of her pleasure, to the effect she’s having on John as he shatters like a shipwreck under her unrelenting purpose, her will.

She rides him with thorough, devastating stabs of her hips, grinding her snatch against his body and clenching to drive her own delight at the bottom of each thrust.  She’s wet like a rainstorm, slick like the sea where her body squeezes around him in a grip that coils and tightens like a knot.  The lewd, slick sounds of their bodies sliding together make John’s toes curl, make him bite his lip, straining to hold back the onslaught—

“Please,” he hears himself whine, frantic, “please, I need to—,”

“Don’t you _fucking_ come until I’m done with you,” she snarls, looking down at his face for the first time since she climbed aboard.  Then she throws her head back and arches her spine; it makes her insides narrow and contract against his cock like a vise and it’s all John can do to clench his eyes shut and hold on for dear life.

He feels a sudden, harsh slap across his face and John jerks back, looks up at Anne, shocked—but the slap has its intended effect:  the jolt of it brings John back from the brink—just a bit.  Then Anne hikes her skirt up more, exposing smooth, milky thighs, and grabs John’s hands to shove them where their bodies are joined.

“Finger my pussy while I play with my tits,” she says, still not slowing the movement of her hips against him.  John swallows another groan and moves his fingers into her folds, obedient, pushes her soft lips apart and presses in, massages her clit with the edges of his thumbs, one on each side.

A low, deep keening rumbles up Anne’s chest and she pulls open the front of her buttoned shirt, exposing the peaky, pink tips of her perfect white breasts.  She presses her own hands against her skin, rubs the pads of her fingers across her nipples as she arches her back again, shoves downward, grinds against John’s aching, desperate flesh.

Then she gasps—hard—and clenches, again and again, her whole body shaking and shuddering and twisting with the gush of her orgasm.  John hears himself whimper, moan, he sees shiny white sparks flash across his vision under the effort of holding on, straining to let Anne take her full pleasure before giving into his own.

Finally, Anne’s shudders gentle a bit; they soften into smooth, rolling tremors of flesh and she slumps a little, lowers her hands to brace herself up on John’s body. She looks down into his twitchy, desperate eyes, smirks.

“Okay, boy, go ahead and—,” she starts, but John doesn’t wait to hear the end before he grabs her by the hips, wide-eyed and frantic, and heaves up into her, once, twice—his pleasure _just_ at the brink…

Then Anne reaches with deft fingers to brush at his stomach, slide up his chest, and—suddenly—she _twists_ his left nipple, hard, through the fabric of his shirt and _oh_ —

Satiation is a convulsion, like a torrent that rips through him, body and soul.  John moans and gasps and just _rides_ the waves of resounding bliss, his writhing body only held in place by the solid, anchoring presence of Anne’s body above him.  He hears her laughing as he pushes up into her through the end.

After, she pulls slowly off and slides down to lie back beside him on the bed, soft and sated.

“Well, Miss Bonny,” John says, still a bit hoarse, when he’s finally managed to catch most of his breath, “I hope that was… adequate?  Satisfactory to your needs?” 

Anne glances over at him, arcs one delicate eyebrow over an entirely unimpressed gaze.

“Wasn’t too bad, boy,” she says, with a shrug of a pale, rounded shoulder, bared under her newly-ripped shirt, “Now get the fuck out before someone catches you on his side of the bed, and I have to go twelve fucking rounds with his pouting, surly self.”

John grins at her, then gathers up his clothes. 

He slips out of Anne and Jack’s bedroom silently, smoothly, with only a bit of limp to his tread.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be updating the tags & pairings as this story develops—stay tuned. ;)
> 
>  **Chapter Illustration:** [_Miranda - The Tempest_](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Miranda_-_The_Tempest_JWW.jpg) \- John William Waterhouse, 1916
> 
> All feedback is hugely appreciated. You can also discuss this story (or anything else) with me on [Tumblr](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/). **(ETA: And now also on Imzy.[Come play with me!](https://www.imzy.com/kaesaria))**


	2. The Sea Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **sea witch** (siː wɪtʃ) _n. pl. sea witches_  
>       1. a person, especially a woman, who professes or is supposed to have the power to control the fates of ships and seamen  
>      2. a woman who is supposed to have evil or wicked magical powers derived from the sea  
>  _Origin._ before 900; Middle English wicche, Old English wicce; see wicked
> 
>   
> 

Mrs. Miranda Barlow’s fingers brush against John’s, slightly, as she slides the sealed envelope out of his hand.  Her eyes flick down his form in the briefest of glances before she steps back, poised and elegant, to invite him inside her small cottage with as much grace as if she were asking him to step into the gilded entrance hall of great plantation mansion.

She offers him tea, which he gallantly declines, before indicating him to sit—with a soft, enigmatic tilt of her chin—at a chair near the fireplace, opposite her, while she reads the letter from Captain Flint.

After, she rests the paper on her lap and looks out the window, quiet and contemplative.  She’s still for a long while, and John begins to think she’s forgotten his presence entirely.

“Mrs. Barlow—,” he says, finally, and she looks at him, surprised, as if unaccustomed to any interruption to the silence of her thoughts.  “May I be of any further service to you?” he continues, after clearing his throat, “Perhaps I could carry a return letter back to the ship?”

She looks at him for a long moment, considering, her lip quirked up just a tiny bit at one side.

“No, thank you,” she says, finally, “I have no reply for the Captain tonight.”  She stands up and drops the letter onto the small table under the kitchen window, before turning back to John.

“But perhaps—,” she continues, then steps quietly into John’s space. 

Mrs. Barlow lifts a soft, graceful hand and moves it toward the side of John’s neck, near his throat. He stares up at her, feels his eyes widen as her fingers ghost across his skin. When he doesn’t pull away, she slides two fingers under the fabric of his collar and pulls it to the side, bearing his neck, his collarbone. His skin prickles, tingles under her delicate touch.

She smiles down at him, then, her dark eyes glinting with soft amusement—and something else.

“Perhaps there is another service you can perform for me, tonight,” she says, finally.  Then she releases John’s collar and turns, her voluminous grey skirts swirling around her like cauldron smoke, toward an entryway that seems to lead into the inner recesses of the house.  Right at the threshold, she stops, glances back, her eyes dark and enchanting.

“If you not otherwise engaged tonight, and are so inclined, I would be most pleased to receive you in my bedroom in a few minutes time.” She smiles again, and her eyes crinkle in something that may be a wink, “Otherwise you know where the door is, and you will excuse me if I do not show you out.”

John swallows, looks down, wipes damp palms against his thighs. By the time he raises his eyes again, Mrs. Barlow has disappeared down the hall.

John slowly counts to five hundred, then follows after her.

When he enters the bedroom at the end of the hall, Mrs. Barlow is entirely undressed.  She’s lying, languid and otherworldly, at the center of her wide bed, gazing back at John.

Her hair is down, as well, and it flows in long, black-brown waves over her shoulders and down her body, the strands brushing against the flushed, puckered points of her breasts.  Her skin is pale and creamy against the darkness of her hair.  John’s eyes slide down to catch on her delicate, curled toes, on her long legs and milky thighs that come to an apex at the dark shock of hair at her snatch.

When he looks back up, Mrs. Barlow’s captivating gaze meets his own, sure and direct and entirely unhesitant in her self-assurance, in her desire.  She’s running a bit of silky cloth—a man’s long sash, it looks like—though her fingers, idly, as she watches him.

“Remove your clothing,” she says softly, then, and John feels himself moving, as if entranced, to obey the sheer power in her voice even before he consciously processes the words. 

He feels Mrs. Barlow’s dark, uncanny eyes on his skin as he shucks off his shirt and pushes down his britches and undergarments, toes off his boots and even removes the chains from around his neck. When he’s entirely bared before her, he hesitates, looks up—

Mrs. Barlow waits until he meets her gaze, then she slowly, deliberately slides her eyes down his form, as if absorbing every inch of him into herself through those eerie eyes.  John feels himself shudder and his cock—which had already been at half-mast when he entered the room—hardens all the way under her under that hot, magnetic gaze.

“Do you find it at all uncomfortable to cede control in love, Mr. Silver?” she asks, finally, after a long, still moment in which John stays frozen, spellbound under the lady’s sway.

“Ah—no, madam,” John replies, just a bit shakily, after quickly sucking some spit back into his mouth.  She gives him a small smile, mystic and mysterious, at the answer, then crooks one slim finger to beckon him to her side.  John swallows, and obeys.

Mrs. Marlow is an overwhelming, unrelenting power in her bed: her presence, her entrancing will looms larger than life and all the heavens and it’s all John can do to scramble to keep up, to rush to fulfil her wishes, her desires, her commands.

Before long, John is face-down on the bed, arms stretched out in front of him, and the silken cloth—Captain Flint’s sash, as it turns out—is knotted around his wrists and firmly secured to the sturdy bars of the headboard above.  He finds himself a gasping, squirming mess under the relentless, merciless pleasure inflicted by delicate fingers against his flesh.  John whimpers at the barely-there, teasing, tingling patterns she traces against his skin, like runic symbols etched into conjuring clay. 

He’s still trying desperately not to thrust his leaking cock against the bedspread—Mrs. Barlow has forbidden it—when he feels a quick, sharp slap on the inside of his left thigh.

John moans and lifts his hips in acquiescence, pulls up onto his knees, spreading them wide as he feels another indicative brush of fingers against the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh.

“Mmm, very nice,” Mrs. Barlow allows, and slides her nails up the back of John’s leg, making the skin there tingle and twitch.  Then she reaches in between and strokes down his engorged length, once, twice.  John hears a high, keening noise coming out of his own mouth, muffled only a little by the pillow underneath his face. 

He hears Mrs. Barlow chuckle, softly, as he strains not to push into her grip.

“You are quite pleasingly sensitive,” she says, approvingly, then withdraws her hand—John presses his face harder into the pillow to stifle his groan of frustration.  Suddenly, he feels a slim, slick finger probe gently at his hole—John freezes for second in surprise—then he moans again and pushes back against the delicate pressure, urgent and shameless in his want.

By the time Mrs. Barlow has three long fingers inside him, pressing rhythmically at the acute, sensitive place deep inside, John is a whimpering, writhing, leaking mess.  “ _Please_ ,” he hears himself beg, “please—,” but his mind is too far gone to string any more words together, to make any further sense.  Mrs. Marlow withdraws her fingers, then, and John shudders, sobs in dismay.

“Hush now, almost there,” she shushes him, then presses at his hip, firmly, helps him turn over onto his back.  He looks up at her, utterly enthralled, devastated, through wet, clumped-together eyelashes, feeling as if his whole self is exposed before the lady, open and utterly bare.  She smiles, gently, then leans down to press a soft kiss against his open, gasping lips.

“Beautiful boy,” she whispers, smoothing the tears away from his eyes, “we’re almost there.”  Then she pulls herself over his body, straddling him, and slides up until her wet, pink folds are at his face. 

John pushes his face up at her, sealing his mouth between her thighs, and the lady moans and arches above him, rubbing herself intently against his lips, his mouth, his jaw, her knees braced on either side of his outstretched arms still bound above his head. 

John presses his tongue against her, inside her, and she moans again, and laughs, softly, then gasps and throws her head back as he flicks his tongue across her clit, and again, and again, building a cadence, a rhythm against her twitching, bewitching flesh.  She grinds down on his face, pushing her wetness at him until he thinks he might drown under the pleasure of it, then lifts up, just a bit, so that he has to crane his neck, straining, to lap up at her folds.

John pulls at his bound arms, half-blind and frantic with desire, thrusts his hips into empty air, groaning in yearning and frustration and need as he works his tongue, his lips, his mouth to pleasure the beautiful, indomitable woman sighing softly above him.  _Please_ , he thinks, _please_ …

She’s quiet and almost entirely still when she comes, braced on her arms at the headboard above him, just the slightest twitching of her hips, the pulsing, rhythmic clench of her body and the wet rush of wetness against his tongue the only proof of her pleasure. She sighs, blissfully, at the end, then slides languorously down his body and pushes herself off to lie at his side, her palm on his chest.

John is still licking at the taste of her on his lips, still gasping—he feels his hips jerking, twisting, seeking friction—needing, needing—

“Good boy,” Mrs. Barlow says, and she slides her hand down John’s body, ghosting a grip around his cock—John whines, loudly, a keening noise—before the lady presses the pad of her thumb at the delicate, tingling spot right underneath the swollen crown.  She rubs a tiny, exquisite circle there against his over-sensitized flesh and—

John curls up into himself, grunting, yanking unconsciously against the unyielding silk restraining his arms—he thrusts up into nothing, one, twice, and watches with shocked eyes as a white stripe of come spurts violently out of his cock and arches through the air to land across his chest—and then another, and another. 

Mrs. Barlow just holds him there, captivated, captured between her delicate index finger and thumb, at the place just under the bulging head of his cock as she continues to rub the tiniest circles with those two fingers and John comes and comes and _comes_.

After, it takes long minutes for John to return from the blankness that slides over his eyes, to get ahold of his heaving, gasping, wheezing breaths.  And even then, he has to lie there for a good while longer, trying to remember who he is, and what he’s doing, and why he’s there.

He’s dimly aware that Mrs. Barlow is lying on her stomach beside him now.  She watches him for a while, then lowers her head down to her folded arms and lets out a long breath, blissful and relaxed.

“You are a truly extraordinary woman, Mrs. Barlow,” John says, finally, and slides his eyes over to the lady, awestruck and transfixed. His eyes skim down her shoulders and back and over the smooth, kissable curves of her bottom. “Or shall I call you Miranda, now that we are so much more... familiar?” he adds, his voice warming with a slow grin.

“And are we so familiar, Mr. Silver?” the lady retorts, archly, “Do you truly know who I am, after so brief an interlude?”  Mrs. Barlow still has her face hidden, pressed against her folded arms, but John sees her shoulders shake with soft amusement at his words, he hears the smile in her voice. 

John grins some more, himself, and thinks a moment before speaking.

“They say you are a powerful sea witch,” he says, finally, “That you have an unnatural hold over Captain Flint, that you control him like a puppet across far, empty distances to do you wicked bidding.”  John pauses and squints down at the lady, wryly, still feeling the last, trembling aftershocks of his intense, over-delayed orgasm, “And now I’m beginning to believe the stories.” 

Mrs. Marlow turns her face to look at him, her cheek still pillowed on satin-smooth, milky arms. She smiles, slowly, the amusement flowing across her face like a soft, warm current.

“Then call me Aphrodite, or Calypso—take your pick,” she says, “I am the goddess of the ocean, the unnatural queen risen from seafoam to control men’s will with a flick of my wrist, a glance of my power-mad eyes.”  She shifts onto her side, then, and John’s eyes slide unconsciously down her body to her soft, lovely breasts and the velvety expanse of her belly.  Mrs. Marlow laughs, gently, and reaches out with a finger to tip John’s chin back up to her face.

“And as your queen, I order you to obey me now—leave, go back to Captain Flint and tell him of the unholy deeds that I have inflicted upon your person here, tonight.”  She pauses and winks again, just a bit, “Or not.  I suppose it shall have to depend on how much, exactly, you think he will want to hear.”

Then she smiles again, and reaches to flick a nail, delicately, against his bare shoulder:  a dismissal.  John rolls off the bed and pulls on clothes, still laughing softly under his breath.

He slips quietly out of the room, out of the cottage, leaving the enchantress to her rest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is "The Siren" - three guesses on who that's going to be!
> 
>  **Chapter Illustration:** [_The Sea Witch_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_Frazetta) \- Frank Frazetta, 1967
> 
> All feedback is hugely appreciated. You can also discuss this story (or anything else) with me on [Tumblr](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/). **(ETA: And now also on Imzy.[Come play with me!](https://www.imzy.com/kaesaria))**


	3. The Siren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **si·ren** (ˈsʌɪrˈən) _n., pl. sirens_  
>      1. _Classical Mythology._ one of several sea nymphs who lure mariners to destruction by their seductive singing.  
>      2. a seductively beautiful or charming woman, especially one who beguiles men.  
>  _Origin._ 1300-50; Middle English sereyn - Old French sereine - Late Latin Sīrēna, Latin Sīrēn - Greek Seirḗn
> 
>   
> 

Max is, undeniably, a most striking woman:  in visage, in body, in soul.

But the most arresting thing about her—to John, anyway—is her beautiful, beguiling voice.  He could listen to lilting tones of her speech, the melodic, exotic swing of her accent, the lyrical poetry of her words all day, every day, and never grow tired of it.

“It is not often that a man strikes my fancy,” she’s saying to him now, “but there is something about you, Mr. Silver, that makes me want to know you more.”  She comes toward him, slowly, and John is memorized by the rhythm of her approach, the liquid grace of her body, the soft sway of her hips—it’s as sweet and seductive as sin.

“Ah—you wish to  _know_  me, Max?” he hears himself say, then, “Um, may I call you ‘Max’?”

“You may call me whatever pleases you,” is her husky reply.  She’s upon him now, and she presses the palm of her right hand, small and warm, against his chest.

The late-afternoon sun is streaming in from the large windows directly behind her, throwing long shadows and burnished highlights over the sumptuous, over-decorated room in all its velvet-and-brocade-covered splendor.  The light catches on the edges of Max’s golden skin, on the dark, silky curls of her hair and suddenly—for one breathtaking moment—she looks ethereal, otherworldly, unreal:  like a creature of magic and dangerous allure, like something out of a fairy tale, a fantasy.

Then Max smiles her charming little half-smile, the one more in her eyes than in her lips, and the spell is broken—or maybe it’s that John has been inescapably hooked, captivated by the glamour she’s cast over him, to be reeled in by her draw like a shipwrecked sailor toward rocky shore.

“Come,” she says, and takes him by the hand, leads him to the soft, lavish, over-dressed bed.

Before long she has him fully naked, on his back, gasping and moaning as she slides down his body, pressing fervent, skillful kisses at his neck, his chest, his stomach, his thighs.  When she lowers her head to take him into her mouth he groans and throws his head back, closing his eyes and straining to keep his hips still as she draws him in one long, practiced slide.

Max’s mouth is hot and wet and willing—she sucks and twists her tongue and hums around his cock, making him shudder and whine at the vibration, the bliss.  She moves her hands to the sides of his hips and presses there, urging him to take his pleasure as he will.   John gives in, he writhes and moans and whimpers with abandon under her expert caress.

Max is experienced and accomplished at the art of  _la pipe_ —very astoundingly so—but John can’t help mourning the keen loss of her  _voice,_ her rare, alluring, enticing voice—lamentably silenced when her mouth is so otherwise occupied. 

He pushes up onto his elbows to look at her, then, and Max pulls up for a moment to meet his gaze, her lips already curling into small, reflexive smile.  John immediately finds himself smiling back at her, ready, eager to bask in whatever further pleasures she has in store, when—

He catches something strange in her eyes… or maybe the  _lack_  of something—crucial and conspicuous in its absence.  It brings him up short, and John has to stop, to peer down at her face and search there, carefully, for a long moment.  Max gazes back at him, puzzled and perplexed.

“Is there something the matter?” she asks, drawing back a bit.

John pushes himself up all the way on his arms, and Max follows his lead until they’re both sitting on the bed facing each other, bodies close.  Max tilts her chin in a silent question, quirks her lip up, bemused.

“No, not in the least,” John replies, finally, then he bends his face to her neck.  He takes a moment to inhale the delicious scent of her, spicy and sweet, before pressing his lips softly, carefully against the side of her throat.  He hears Max gasp a little, surprised, then she pulls her head to side and allows him to kiss and lick and nip at her neck.  After a moment, Max starts to hum in pleasure, and her hand comes to rest on John’s shoulder, urging him on.  He smiles into her skin, then draws back.

“If you will allow me?” he asks, gesturing gallantly at the closure of Max’s silky robe, still securely wrapped around her body.  Max smirks a little at that, her eyes crinkling with knowing amusement, then she leans back on her hands and arcs an eyebrow at him, inviting.

John grins and reaches for her.

He unwraps her like a present, like a gift, slowly peeling away one silky, gauzy layer at a time to reveal beautiful stretches of rich, smooth skin.  John revels in each expanse uncovered, takes his time to brush eager lips against the delicate line of her collarbone, the soft arch of her back, her nape, to nuzzle his face into the dip of her navel, the mound of her breast. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Max gasps at first, startled, then she sighs, quietly, “ _oui_ ,” curving into his touch.

When he has her bare before him, he presses lightly at her shoulder, urging her back, and she smiles and allows him to arrange her on the pillows until she’s laid out before him like a feast.  John takes a quick, quiet second to drink in the sight of the alluring, magical creature before him, then he lowers his lips to one pert nipple, gently, reverently. 

He glances up at the sharp intake of breath and sees Max’s eyes widen a little, in pleasure, in surprise. 

“Mmm, you are a treasure, Mr. Silver,” she mummers, “Perhaps I should keep you here forever, in my bed, as my prisoner, my prize…”  Her voice fades into another gasp, another low moan as John lets his teeth scrape over delicate flesh.

She’s not often touched like this, he realizes, then—not by men—and maybe never before.  John lowers his eyes to the task and takes his time, lathing and suckling on the nipple between his lips until it’s dark and puckered with sensation.  Then he moves to the other, slowly, pausing to kiss the velvety skin in between, the soft curve of the underside, before latching onto the other tip.

All the while he ghosts his hands over her body, everywhere—awakening the skin underneath his fingers, making Max shiver and shudder with sensation.  He worships her with his mouth, his hands, his gaze—the way she deserves, the way she should be treated all the time by everyone, anyone granted the great fortune of being allowed to touch her exquisite form.

By the time John moves his fingers to her center, Max is sighing and writhing under his hands.  He pulls himself alongside her and leans over his elbow, looks over the whole of her to watch and treasure the reactions on her face, the twitches and trembles of her body as he pleasures her with his lips, his fingers, his hand.

“ _Oh, les lèvres, les doigts_ ,” he hears her whisper, then, barely audible, “ _Si doux… doux comme ceux de mes filles_.”  John presses his face into her neck, hides his grin against her skin.

The first time she comes, it’s a beautiful, rippling cascade:  Max’s slick, soft folds clench around John’s fingers, her clit twitches against his thumb.  She gasps and moans and shudders through her pleasure, then she opens her eyes and beams pure delight into John’s enraptured face.  She slides her hand up his cheek, slowly, curls her fingers in his hair to pull him down for a long, sensuous kiss—John is gasping by the end.

The second time she comes, it’s with John’s face between her thighs, his tongue lapping smoothly, steadily up her wetness, flicking the tip against her clit at the end of every stroke.  He keeps the rhythm unchanging, unrelenting, slow.  He smiles into her flesh when he feels her legs wrap around his shoulders, when her hands tangle in his hair, whimpering, urging, urgent—but he doesn’t alter his cadence, the metric, methodical flicks of his tongue.  Her pleasure builds like a torrent, like a rainstorm behind a dam and when it finally breaks, the flood of her wetness is near enough to drown them both.

The third time she comes, John is rutting against her carefully, deliberately, his cock angled and nestled between her folds so that he can brush the length of himself along her clit with every stroke.  Her delicate wrists are captured under his hands and she’s writhing languorously underneath him, gasping and twisting with abandon.  When he feels her arch and shudder and clench against his inflamed flesh, John has to bite his lip and steel his soul against the sensation—he just,  _just_  manages to keep up smooth, sliding pressure of his thrusts until Max reaches her end.

When she finally looks up at him, after, her eyes are dazed and dreamy with pleasure.

“I believe I was right about you, Mr. Silver,” she murmurs up at him, her lilting voice still raspy in the wash of her bliss.  Max smiles, then, and tilts up her chin for his lips:  when John bends down, she deepens the kiss immediately, presses her delicious tongue into his mouth and hums quietly under her breath.  He feels her smile she licks the taste of herself on his lips.

“I would like you inside me, now,” she tell him, and John is all too happy to obey.  He only has to shift his hips slightly before he feels himself sliding into her soft, slickened body, wet and warm and welcoming in the wake of her pleasure.

Max is a magnet, a _lure_  made flesh underneath him:  she draws him into herself as if his body was an extension of hers and he finds himself wrapping himself around her, pressing as close as he can—clutching at her body like a shipwrecked sailor clings to a piece of life-saving hull, like he might sink and descend and disappear into nothing if he ever lets go.

“ _Cheri, je veux te sentir en moi… ah—oui, oui, mon chou_ ,” she’s crooning into his ear, like a seduction, like a song, as she wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him even closer. 

John groans and rocks into the pleasure, into the hot clench of her, and—that’s it, he can’t last any longer:  he’s gone, surrendering, relinquishing, giving himself up to  _la petite mort_ , to her, pushing in one last time as he feels her body squeeze the exquisite, shattering shudders out of him.

After, he pulls out and just barely manages to shift his body to the side, a bit, before collapsing on her again, pillowing his head on her breast and hugging her close with one arm.  He can feel her heartbeat under his ear, her chest heaving in concert with his own heavy breaths.  He smiles and nuzzles into her skin, adoring, when she skims a soft, gentling hand over his back.

John lifts his head, then, and props his chin on his hand to look at her, leaning over his elbow.  There’s something inscrutable hiding the shadows of her eyes, something deep and powerful and primal lurking behind the easy expression on the surface of her face—John feels the breath catch in his throat for a moment. 

Then Max smiles her enigmatic half-smile, again, and the spell is broken once more.

She reaches to comb her fingers through his disheveled hair, smoothing the strands away from his face and tucking them behind his ear.  She slides one finger over his cheek to swipe at the full curve of his bottom lip, soft and considering.

John grins down at her.  “Do you find me pretty, like a girl?” he asks, finally, lifting his eyebrows.

Max laughs, surprised and delighted, then, “No, I find you pretty, like a boy,” she replies with a wink.  She pushes up on her elbows to kiss him one more time, a deft, chaste peck on the lip she’d been stroking with her finger a second ago.  Then she turns away, reaches for her robe.

John groans a little, disappointed at the withdrawal of her warm body from under his.

“Oh,  _cheri_ ,” Max says, smiling at him, “It would not do to indulge too much in this.  We may find ourselves trapped on an island of deceptive pleasures, unable to ever to return to our real lives, our loves.”

He looks at her for a long, longing second, then dips his head to press his lips to the golden flesh of her thigh, once, twice.  He slides unwillingly off the bed, moves to pull on his own clothes. 

John pauses to throw one more glance in her direction before leaving—wistful, wry.

Max turns to meet his gaze at the last second, to smile and blow him a kiss as he slips out the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next lady on deck is "The Crag." A bit trickier, but just think about it...
> 
>  **Chapter Illustration:** [_The Kiss of the Siren_](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gustav_Wertheimer_-_The_Kiss_of_the_Siren_\(1882\).jpg) \- Gustav Wertheimer, 1882
> 
> All feedback is hugely appreciated. You can also discuss this story (or anything else) with me on [Tumblr](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/). **(ETA: And now also on Imzy.[Come play with me!](https://www.imzy.com/kaesaria))**


	4. The Crag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **crag** (kraɡ) _n., pl. crags_  
>      1. a steep, rugged rock; rough, broken, projecting part of a rock.  
>     2. a steep rock face, especially at the edge of the sea.  
>  _Origin._ 1275-1325; Middle English - British Celtic; akin to Welsh craig rock
> 
>   
> 

Miss Eleanor Guthrie’s face is tight with worry, her shoulders are tense with strain as she moves like a whirlwind through the tavern hall:  she’s cleaning up the last of the dinner things, she’s keeping an eye on the door, she’s planning next month’s hauls, she’s tallying this month’s profits, she’s negotiating the Walrus’s cut with John—all of it and all at once.

“But sugar prices are up this season, you have to factor that into our fee,” John argues, plaintively—then a new, cunning thought slithers into his brain:  “And don’t think I didn’t find out that _Captain Vane’s_ crew got twice as many leads as we did last month—” 

As expected, Miss Guthrie’s forehead crumples with fury at the mention of the name.  She reels to face John—too quickly, as it turns out—and her rustling skirts upset a clay jug resting at the edge of the table.   She reaches for the wobbling thing, frantically, but—

“Shit!” she says, just as the jug slips from her fingers and crashes to the floor, shattering and spilling red wine all over the flagstones.  She stares at the mess for a frozen moment, as if appalled at the destruction she’s wreaked.  Then she quickly drops to her kneels to pick up the shards—entirely unheedful of how her skirts turn dark and wet as they soak up the spill.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hears her whisper again, quietly, after a moment.  She’s frozen in place and staring at nothing, now, a few fragments of the smashed jug still clutched tightly in her hands.  Her voice sounds almost as jagged as the broken bits of pottery scattered around her.

John goes to her, crouches to help her pick up the pieces.

After a long moment, just as he's gathering the last of the shards, John becomes aware of the girl’s eyes on him, silent and watchful.  When he looks up to meet her gaze, Miss Guthrie’s face is still strained—her eyebrows are pulled up to create tiny worry lines at the peak of her brow—but… there’s something else there, hiding in the depths of her blue eyes.

“Ah, do you have something we can use to wipe this up?” John asks, then, mainly to break the tension.  He gestures at the spilled wine between them, gleaming dull and crimson on the flagstones.

“Just—just leave it,” Miss Guthrie says, wearily, “I’ll get it later.”  Then she sits back on her heels, brings up an arm to wipe at her forehead with the back of her hand.  She’s still watching him, intently.

So John straightens up, himself, and looks back at her—waits to see what she’ll do, what she wants.

Miss Guthrie presses her lips together and throws one more harried glance toward the door—everything is silent on the street—then turns back to John, and rolls her shoulders a bit, seems to come to some kind of decision.  That’s all the warning John has before—

She _launches_ herself at him:  thrusts herself forward until she’s on her knees right before him, her warm, unyielding body pressed along his front, her knees insistently pushing between his. 

She wraps an arm around his neck and pulls his head down for a forceful, demanding kiss, shoving their lips together and pushing her tongue inside his mouth like an incursion, like an invasion.  At the same time, he feels her other hand worm between their flush bodies until she’s grasping at his rapidly-wakening cock, grinding her palm against his crotch through his pants.

“Mmm, yes,” she murmurs against his lips—possibly to herself, “this is what I need.”  With that, she squeezes, hard—and John gasps, pulls away, stares at her with dazed eyes.

Miss Guthrie smirks at him for a second—a hard, flinty smile—then pushes herself away and up, then she holds out a hand to him.  When they’re standing face to face, bodies close, she reaches down to grab John’s cock again—only marginally gentler than before.

“I’ve been up with the accounts all night, and now you’re here with your fucking complaints,” she tells him, all the while squeezing rhythmically with her hand.  John struggles to focus, to follow as she goes on, “I need to let off some stress.  And you don’t seem to be… averse?”

“Um,” John says, then stifles a low groan as she does—something—with her wrist, then, “No—not averse,” he gasps.  He feels his eyes widen, a little, as he watches the tip of Miss Guthrie’s pink tongue flick out to lick her lips, predatory and pleased.

“Good,” is all she says, before suddenly getting go of his cock.  John feels bereft, lost, for a moment—

Then Miss Guthrie grabs his hand and pulls it her snatch, where she’s rucked up her skirts to her thighs.  She leans back on the table behind her, braced on her arms, and brings up her foot to rest at the edge, her knee lifted to give John unhindered access.  She sighs, contentedly, and throws back her head as John presses his fingers into her core.

She’s soft and warm and moist there, and she grows even wetter as John moves his fingers against her and into her, as he strokes up her folds and flicks his thumb against her clit.  Miss Guthrie groans and stiffens, then, and reaches down to grab John’s wrist to hold him _just there_.  John grins—apparently the young lady is not one for the slow build—and he obediently rubs his thumb in fixed, relentless circles at that sensitive point.

It doesn’t take long for her to shudder and push into his touch, leaning forward to wrap an arm around his neck, pulling his body to hers, urgent and close.  John hums, softly, and slides his free hand along her back, stroking and petting her through the end.

After, she slumps against him, breathing hard.  John pulls his hand away from her wetness and bends his neck for another kiss—but Miss Guthrie shifts away, unexpectedly. 

When he looks at her, surprised, he sees that her expression is—less _strained_ than before, but there’s still a certain tightness about her shoulders, a bit of tenseness at her brow.  She pulls her eyes away from his and glances toward the door again.

“Thank you,” she says, “that was—very nice.” 

There’s something in her tone, though, that bespeaks a certain… lack of complete satisfaction.  John smiles, ruefully, and moves to kneel before her.  He’s ready to press his lips against her for another go—John Silver is not one to ever leave a woman less than _fully_ sated—but Miss Guthrie stops him with a firm hand on his arm.

“No,” she tells him, “I want you to fuck me now.”  

Then she pushes herself off the table and turns around.  In a blink, Miss Guthrie has her skirts pulled up around her hips, is leaning over the table and looking over her shoulder at him, pointedly, before John can do so much as nod in agreement. 

“Now,” she says, her voice already edged with impatience, and—

John rushes to obey.

He hears himself groan as he presses into the impossible heat of her, the wet clamp of her body surrounding and enveloping and squeezing him like vise.  He has to pause a second—bite his lip—to keep things from coming to an untimely end.  Then he leans over her, bracing his hands on the table at her sides as he rocks into her, slow, savoring the feel of her around his cock, the warm, sweet grip of her body around his, the exquisite clench, but—

The girl pushes back against him, twisting, impatient.  He hears her hiss through her teeth with pique, with frustration—so John gives in, lets her set the pace, his hands at the small of her back, at her hips, just trying to keep up as she drives them faster, harder.

Miss Guthrie fucks him like a force of nature:  he feels as if he’s on the craggy edge of precipice, about to fall off at any second under the fervor of her pleasure, her rock-hard resolve.  She makes him _want_ to jump, to hurtle and writhe and moan all the way to his doom. 

She’s wild and utterly unyielding in her desire, until it’s all John can do to grab her hips and push himself into her with hard, harsh thrusts—savoring her sighs and gasps as his own pleasure builds inside him in urgent, ever-rising waves.  Before long he’s panting, grunting, groaning uncontrollably as he drives into her ruthlessly, mercilessly, the way she wants.

At the end, she rears up and arches her back, twists around to grab at his neck and pull him to her in an unrelenting, brutal kiss as she shudders and shoves and clenches around him.  John moans into her mouth as he feels himself spurt inside her, his arms coming around her to press her close, hold her tight though the final, cascading bliss.

After, John nuzzles his face into her neck, at the crook of her shoulder, and presses wet, messy kisses there as he works to recover his breath.  He can feel the racing beat of the girl’s pulse under his lips and he smiles, licks at her skin.  Her body is still trembling and shuddering with aftershocks, and he feels them with her through the squeeze of her body around his softening cock.

Finally, she pulls away and slumps forward onto her elbows on the table.  After a moment, she climbs forward and turns herself around, wriggling, until she’s lying on her back on the hard wooden slats of the table top.  As he watches, she pulls up her knees and reaches between her own legs, pressing softly against the wetness there with her fingers, entirely shameless and magnificent. 

John feels an unlikely, renewed twinge at his cock at the sight, and he lowers a quelling hand to press at himself, surprised.

Just then, Miss Guthrie glances down her body to where he’s still half-braced on the edge of the table, watching her. “Can you grab me a cloth?” she asks, after a moment, “It’s just there—on that shelf behind you.”

John obligingly turns to fetch her the cloth, but—

His eyes catch on the taut line of her body, the slight tension that’s already coming back to her shoulders, even as she rubs absently at herself.  Miss Guthrie’s eyes are fixed on the ceiling, unseeing—and somehow he knows that she’s thinking about profit margins again, that she’s already divvying up hauls in her head.  John huffs out an exasperated breath—and the girl’s eyes flit back down to him, bemused.

“How about I do you one better,” he says—and before she can respond, he reaches to grab her by the hips and pulls her down to the edge of the table.  Her legs splay apart, reflexively, and he hears her yelp in surprise.

John grins up at her, and then drops to his knees to press his face against her wetness—to lick his own spend out of her folds.  He feels Miss Guthrie stiffen for a brief second… then she melts, boneless, under his determined tongue.

There’s no urgency in the act, this time. 

John takes his time, slides his tongue up the sides of her snatch, slowly, languorously, again and again—until the girl is whining and squirming under his mouth—before finally nuzzling his face into her center to lick and suck the juices from her dripping core.  He closes his eyes and gives himself over to the task, slurping and suckling and reveling in every small, stifled, whimpering noise he manages to pull from this woman of stone.

After a while, he feels a new insistence at his own lap, so he slides down a hand to grip and stroke himself in time with his tongue.  The slow, unhurried build of pleasure is delicious, exquisite—and John sighs with delight when Miss Guthrie finally shudders and trembles under his mouth, dreamy and blissful and loosened, at last.

John presses his face into her soft, milky thigh, then, and inhales the sweet, musky scent of her pleasure as he jerks himself to his own finish—for the second time.

After, the girl’s legs come down at either side of him, and John pushes himself up to wrap his arms around her waist, to pillow his face on her soft, flat belly, enjoying the warmth of her under his cheek as he regains himself.  He feels Miss Guthrie’s hand come down, gently, to his head, and she strokes his hair for a long moment as they bask together in the quiet afterglow of shared pleasure.

Finally, she untangles her hand from his scalp and John feels a soft, insistent touch at his shoulder.  He pulls back and sits on his heels, looking up at her.

The young lady straightens up, slowly, steadily before him—she gradually re-erects herself like a bastion of rock. 

As John watches, on his knees like a supplicant, the hassled, overstretched girl disappears… and the Queen of Nassau rises in her place.  John shuffles back a bit as Miss Guthrie pulls herself to her feet, then she reaches down to offer him a hand to his own.

Then Miss Guthrie shifts her eyes away from him, recedes into herself for a moment, drawing on some inner, elemental strength.  As John looks on, she widens her stance, sets her jaw, lifts her chin.  When she finally turns back to John, her look is as solid as granite, again, and her gaze is as steady as stone.

“This was a pleasant reprieve,” she tells him, “But now you have to go back to your captain, your crew, and I have to get back to... everything... all of this.” 

She closes her eyes for the briefest of moments, then squares her shoulders, looks up, gazes unwaveringly into his eyes before continuing, “Go, and tell them to be happy with what I give them,” she says, “Or they can leave, and make do with nothing at all.”

John opens his mouth to argue again—the protest already on his tongue—but his breath catches, freezes, at the flinty strength in Miss Guthrie’s eyes, the latent power in her gaze. 

After a moment, John has to swallow, look away.  Miss Guthrie’s edges may be rough, he knows, and sometimes her surface may crumble under the immensity of the strains she bears—but the solid stone at her core never cracks, never yields, never concedes.

Finally, John nods.  He fixes his clothing silently, and starts for the door. 

He’s almost out, when—

“And Mr. Silver,” Miss Guthrie’s clear voice comes ringing through the silence of the empty tavern hall:  “Don’t _ever_ mention Charles Vane’s name in my presence again.”

John pauses, looks up—and for a moment he _sees_ :  Eleanor Guthrie stands like a bulwark at the center of the cluttered tavern—like a rigid, rocky cliff that rises from turbulent seas.  She was _made_ to reign over Nassau, to shield her from the ravages of the ocean and the storms and all other dangers that come crashing down at her shores. 

She is not a woman he ever wants to displease.

John smiles, dips his chin at her—in acquiescence, in admiration—and slips out the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is "The Salt Wife," a term I stole from George R. R. Martin and am defining as: _the female (unmarried) sexual companion of a sailor or seaman_. Hmm... who fits that role for John?
> 
>  **Chapter Illustration:** [_Storm at Sea_](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Pieter_Mulier_\(II\)_-_Storm_at_Sea_-_WGA16315.jpg) \- Pieter Mulier II, 17th century
> 
> All feedback is hugely appreciated. You can also discuss this story (or anything else) with me on [Tumblr](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/). **(ETA: And now also on Imzy.[Come play with me!](https://www.imzy.com/kaesaria))**


	5. The Salt Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **salt·wife** (sɒlt wʌɪf) _n., pl. salt wives_  
>      1. the female (unmarried) sexual companion of a sailor, mariner or seaman  
>     2. a woman considered by herself or others to be a common law partner to a sailor or seaman  
>  _Origin._ George R. R. Martin; before 900; Middle English, Old English wīf woman; cognate with Old Norse vīf
> 
>   
> 

Madi Scott’s brow rises in a high, unimpressed arch as she catches John sneaking into her cabin and sliding silently into his chair at the table.  He grins up at her with a most winsome expression, projecting as much innocence and boyish charm as he can into the look.  Which—for John Silver—is a _lot_ , if he does say so himself, but—

Regrettably, Madi looks entirely unmoved.

“You’re late,” she says, “Again.”  She purses her lips and waves the stew ladle at him ominously. 

John’s mouth is already watering at the luscious smells wafting up from Madi’s incomparable cooking pot.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises, waggling his eyebrows in a sexy and seductive way—and that does the trick, Madi’s façade cracks as she snorts in laughter, raising a hand to wave away his ridiculous look.

“I should just let you sit there and starve,” she tells him, then, “but it’s your immeasurable good fortune that such a kind and forgiving woman as myself has allowed you to darken her doorstep.”  With that, she shoves the ladle at John and drops into her own chair at the opposite side of the small table. 

“Go make yourself useful, for once,” she says, indicating to the wooden serving bowls with a tilt of her chin.

John stands to do as he’s told—only pausing to press a kiss into Madi’s shoulder along the way.  She just laughs and pushes him away.

The stew is delicious, as usual, as always—succulent with big flakes of fish and tangy with the exotic spices that always seem to flow freely through the island.  John has seconds, then thirds, before finally groaning and slumping back in his chair, patting his stomach in pleased satiation. 

Madi smirks up at him from her own bowl.

“You’re a pig,” she tells him—and John belches, then sticks out his tongue.

After cleaning up, they move outside to the long porch that runs along the whole back wall of the cabin.  Madi’s lodge is high enough on the residential hills to have a sprawling, unobstructed view over the entire settlement and the glinting bay beyond.  The sun is just setting now, throwing a stunning red-orange cast over the water and creating long, stark shadows that stream beyond the trees and huts that stretch out almost to the waterfront.

John sighs contently and lowers himself to the floor, swinging his leg off the edge of the porch.  He waits until Madi settles herself on her chair behind him, then he shifts back a little to lean against her legs—their usual position.

It’s indescribably peaceful out here, the air quiet and calm with most of the village settling in after a long day of fishing and hunting and building and all the other work that goes on at the island.  It’s a typically warm Caribbean night, and the soft breeze that flows inland from the bay tickles gently at John’s skin.  If he looks carefully, he can make out the shape of the Walrus in the distance—a tiny, insignificant spec against the vastness of the open sea behind her.

A low, lilting tune starts to float toward them from one of the other cabins further down the settlement—a woman’s voice singing a lullaby.  After a moment John feels Madi’s hand come down on his head, running her fingers through his hair.  He sighs happily and snuggles back against her legs, closing his eyes to enjoy the music and her touch.

When the song ends, a long while later, it takes a second for John to come back to himself.  He rolls his shoulders a bit and notices that Madi has stopped petting him.  He tilts his head back onto her lap, looking up at her.

Madi is looking into the distance, her eyes far away.

“My mother used to sing me that song when I was very little,” she tells him, finally, “Perhaps one day I will sing it to my own daughter.”

John looks at her, then shifts himself around, bending his neck to kiss the back of Madi’s hand where it’s resting on her lap.  He turns it over to kiss the palm, next.

Madi smiles and slides her hand up his cheek and around the back of his head, then she pulls him up for a slow, deepening kiss.  She tastes like warm spices.

Eventually, they move back into the cabin and toward Madi’s low bed, kissing all the while and removing most of their clothing along the way.  They’re lying on the bed, gasping a little for breath, when Madi finally pulls away.  She quirks an eyebrow up at him.

“You said you would make it up to me,” she says, then turns over onto her belly and looks back at him over the curve of a dark, delicate shoulder, “I want a backrub.”

John grins at her, then agreeably pulls himself up to kneel over her upper thighs, swinging the wooden leg over her body.  He runs his hands down the muscled plains of her back, over sheening skin that flows under his fingers like rich coffee.  Madi hums and pillows her head into her folded arms, the knots in her shoulders and back slowly relaxing and melting under his skilled, patient hands.

When she’s loose and boneless under him, a good while later, John bends down to press a soft, barely-there kiss into Madi’s skin, right between her shoulder blades—then another, then another.  He smiles when he hears her sigh, quietly.  John straightens to run the backs of his nails up the length of her back, making Madi shiver and wriggle in pleasure.

Then John slides his hands lower down to knead at the round globes of her bottom, slowly ghosting his fingers closer and closer to the crease—but, apparently Madi’s not in the mood for that tonight.

“Come now,” she says, shimmying away a bit, “Don’t you get enough of that at home?”

John laughs and bends down to press his lips to the nape of Madi’s neck one more time, then shifts off to lay by her side.  Madi turns to face him, then pulls him close for a long, slow kiss.  John hums into her mouth, tangling his tongue with hers and twisting his face to the side to get deeper.

It goes on for a long time, and John’s not exactly sure when the kiss turns into a whole body caress, with lips and hands and fingers running over tingling expanses of skin on both sides.  John eventually finds himself pumping his hardened cock languorously into Madi’s grip while his own fingers dip low to delve into the welcoming wetness between her thighs.  The low, sensual noises resonating through the tent are as tantalizing as any of the touches.

After a long while, Madi pulls up for air.  Then she smiles at him and throws her leg over his hip, pressing him close to her, and then blissfully into her.

Madi’s body joins his with smooth familiarity:  they fit together with accustomed ease, their desires blending at the seams in a heady mix of joy and pleasure and mutual want—all mingled and flowing together like shore meeting the sea.

They never stop kissing as they rock into each other, steadily, unhurriedly, both savoring the slow pleasure that builds like a trickle, then a swell, then a surge that finally flows in and out and through their joined bodies like a cresting flood.  John presses his face into Madi’s neck at the end, savoring her quickening pulse, her short, gasping breaths as she pulls him close and shudders around him.

After, John pulls out and wraps his arms around her body, pushing her back to pillow his head in her chest.  Madi’s breasts are magnificent under his face—large and round and firm, with beautiful blackeye nipples that John loves to pull between his lips.  He leans up to look at them, now.

“Your breasts are magnificent,” he tells her, and Madi looks down to throw him a slow, amused grin.

“I know,” is all she says, then pulls him up for another kiss.

It goes on for a long time, and after a while John is half-ready to try for another round.  He slides his hand down Madi’s body to press his fingers at her folds again, hopefully.

She just smiles into his lips and brushes his hand away.

“No, you must go back to your ship now, John—to those who expect you there,” she says, laughing a bit, “It would be rude to keep them awake and waiting all night.”

John rolls his eyes, “As if they ever wait for me,” he says, moving his head down to nuzzle his face into her belly, “Come now, your bed is so much more comfortable than my sad little hammock.” 

But Madi won’t be wheedled into giving in tonight—

“Hah, as if John Silver ever spends a night in his own hammock,” she scoffs, then she pushes his head off her warm skin.  “Hurry and go now, I’m tired—and you know I cannot sleep with another in my bed.”

John tries pouting some more, but Madi just rolls over to pillow her head into her arms again.  After a moment, she wriggles her body down into the bedding and turns her face away from him.  When John tries laying a hand on her leg, all he gets for his effort is a soft kick away from a dainty, dark foot.

Eventually, John gives up and slides off the bed with a last, long-suffering huff.  Madi ignores him.

On his way out, after pulling on his clothes and blowing out the lamps, he stops to glance back his Maroon Queen, illuminated now only by the dusky glow of moonlight.  Madi is already snoring softly, utterly impervious to the world—and to him. 

John watches her for a moment, smiling fondly at her beautiful, still, sleeping form. 

Then he slips out the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the final, +1 chapter of this story, we're going to be heading in an entirely different direction with "The Home Port". ;)
> 
> NOTE: I stole the term "salt wife" from George R. R. Martin and totally altered the definition to suit my own needs here.
> 
>  **Chapter Illustration:** [_Amazon Woman Warrior_](http://fineartamerica.com/featured/1-amazon-woman-warrior-cynnocence-kaufman-sinclair.html) \- Cynnocence Kaufman Sinclair, 2012
> 
> All feedback is hugely appreciated. You can also discuss this story (or anything else) with me on [Tumblr](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/). **(ETA: And now also on Imzy.[Come play with me!](https://www.imzy.com/kaesaria))**


	6. (+1) The Home Port

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **home·port** (həʊm pɔːt) _n., pl. home ports_  
>      1. the port from which a ship originates or at which it typically docks when not at sea.  
>     2. the place in which the domestic affections of a seaman or mariner are centered.  
>  _Origin._ before 900; Middle English hom, Old English hām (noun and adv.); cognate with Dutch heim, Old Norse heimr
> 
>   
> 

When John finally heads home for the night, the moon is already hanging low over the water and the stars are high in the sky.

It takes an unconscionably long time to row back to the ship, alone, and by the time John manages to secure the skiff to the side of the Walrus’s hull and climb up the joists to the main deck, he’s acutely aware of how tired and sweaty and sore he is—and not just from this most recent exercise. 

The night watchman throws one uninterested glance in his direction as John pulls himself over the railing, then goes back to picking at his nails with a long knife, bored. 

John winces at the dull ache between his thighs and hopes he isn’t walking too bow-legged as he moves to the large barrel of washing water kept near the mainstay.  The water is cool and cleansing against his face and neck, and John takes moment to enjoy the refreshing feel of it before wiping off as much as he can with his shirt.  Then he makes his way, half-stumbling, to the wide wooden door that awaits him at the other end other deck.

John is still fumbling at the latch—slow and clumsy with fatigue—when he hears the noises coming from inside:  low grumbling back and forth, and then a muffled yelp followed by a _thump_ that sounds if someone had gotten unceremoniously shoved out of bed.  John ducks his head and smothers a laugh, imagining it.

Then the door swings open in front of him and John finds himself blinking up at the drowsy, exasperated face of Billy Bones glowering down at him.

“Took you fucking long enough,” Billy grouses, rubbing absently at the back of his head, his face still crumpled and squinty with interrupted sleep.  John just grins at him, as innocently as he can manage, then slides past his bulk to move toward the bed, shucking his outer clothing and the wooden leg along the way.  He hears Billy still grumbling under his breath as he latches the door behind them and moves to follow.

“You know you don’t have to fuck every woman that glances your way,” Flint growls, irritably, quirking one eye open to glare up at John when he finally gets to the bed—but then the captain shifts over and throws wide his arm for John to crawl in beside him and snuggle into his warm, strong chest.

“Oh, the women can’t get enough of him,” he hears Billy grumble from behind him, “They pant and bat their eyes and pull him into their beds before he can even _think_ of getting away.  Isn’t that so?” 

John feels the bedding shift as Billy climbs in at his back, pressing close to his body and throwing a large, burly arm over him to curl their fingers together on Flint’s chest.  John hums in pleasure and wriggles back a little into the heat of Billy’s solid body behind him, and nuzzles his face forward more into Flint’s neck.

“What can I say?” John mumbles, sleepily, eyes already falling closed, “They do all love me unbearably, and can you blame them?”  He smirks into the warm skin under his face, where he can hear the comforting, steady beat of Flint’s heartbeat against his cheek. 

“My name is John Silver,” he says, “And I happen to be a _very_ good fuck.”

The last thing he’s aware of, in the warmth of his own bed, nestled snug and safe between the strong, male bodies of his lovers—his loves—is the deep sound of laugher rumbling up Flint’s chest, and the firm, familiar squeeze of Billy’s fingers around his own. 

John sleeps, at last.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Illustration:** [_Ships at Anchor on a Calm Sea_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rembrandt) \- Rembrandt, c. 1640-1679
> 
> All feedback is hugely appreciated. You can also discuss this story (or anything else) with me on [Tumblr](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/). **(ETA: And now also on Imzy.[Come play with me!](https://www.imzy.com/kaesaria))**

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: All the "definitions" used in the chapter summaries are an amalgamation of stuff from dictionary.com and oxforddictionaries.com and just some random stuff pulled from my own head, all mashed together to suit the story's needs. Please don't rely on them for academic purposes. ;)
> 
> I'm using this to fill the "Sharing a Bed" box on my [Trope bingo card](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/post/142415143424/my-updated-trope-bingo-card-deadline-for-fills).


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